


on retribution and proper endings

by OnyxSphinx



Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [7]
Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, alex finally gets to be happy, blunt dying? in MY fic? it's more likely than you think!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29508390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: When SCORPIA fucks Alex over, Alex says fuck it, and gets himself the happy ending he deserves.
Relationships: Tom Harris/Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider
Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110101
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	on retribution and proper endings

**Author's Note:**

> once again a huge shoutout to the alex rider discord server for helping me plan out this fic. i couldn't have done it without you all

The cold night air brushes against Alex’s cheeks; feeling slightly distant through the makeup on his skin. The first time he’d applied it, he’d felt odd—as if there were a layer of dust on his skin, but now, on the fifteenth—and hopefully, final—application, it feels almost natural.

He swirls the glass in his hand, glancing out over the garden. It’s honestly a beautiful thing—carefully kept, but not obviously so, giving it the illusion that it naturally grows the way it does. Effortless. Elegant. Exactly how Alan Remington likes to appear.

At the reminder of the mark’s name, he scolds himself. It’s been a year, almost, but he still has a hard time remembering to refer to his marks by only their designations, or simply as the mark. Then again, he never did want to be an assassin. Never wanted to be a spy, either, for the brief time he was one.

So far, his career paths have ranged from unethical but somewhat legal, to unethical, coerced, and extremely illegal. He's not sure what that says about him, exactly.

He takes a long pull of champagne, trying not to feel bitter. He knows, logically, that this was the only way to keep them all alive, but that doesn’t stop him from hating it. The first few months, he’d nearly gotten them all killed multiple times trying to resist doing what he had to. 

_ You were never an easy child, _ a voice that sounds like Ian’s drifts through his head; and he quirks a sardonic grin. Fair enough. 

He casts another glance over the garden, longing to disappear into it, and then turns around, stepping over the threshold and back into the manor’s giant main room, teeming with people. Flagging down a caterer, he sets his glass on the tray of empty champagne flutes.

Taking a few steps back, he catches sight of the mark, making his way towards him. “Excuse me,” he says, drawing the man’s attention away from the woman he's in conversation with. "Can I trouble you for a dance?"

The mark gives him a once over; gaze lingering on the way his suit is tailored to accentuate his form, before meeting his gaze. "How could I refuse?" he says, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. Then, to the woman: "Do excuse me, Sandra."

She waves him off with a laugh. "Go," she says, "have fun. God knows you need it."

Remington dips into a mock bow. "As you wish," he says, and then rises; offering Alex a hand. "Shall we?"

Alex takes it; allowing the man to lead him to the centre of the room where the other couples are dancing. "A waltz?" he proposes. "Unless you'd prefer something else," he adds.

Alex shakes his head. "A waltz is fine," he says. Remington nods.

There's obviously something else he wants to ask; and it doesn't take long for him to crack. "I'm afraid I don't recognise you," he says. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," he says, with a laugh; gives it a beat so his answer doesn't seem rushed. "I'm Tim—Tim Roberts," he replies. "Uh, this is my first big function." He pulls on a sheepish expression. "I'm a bit shy, so I don't usually attend the parties I'm invited to."

If Remington looks into him, he'll find a few social media pages, populated with various photos of 'Tim' at various parks, and a photo of his graduating class from two years ago at the prestigious, but secluded Hawthorn Academy. Ostensibly, 'Tim' is just a normal, if somewhat well off, twenty year old—though he's only eighteen, the makeup helps pass him off as being two years older.

Finally, the music ends, and they pull apart. "Thanks for the dance," Alex says, sticking out his hand.

Remington takes it. "My pleasure—ow," he hisses, pulling his hand away.

Alex frowns. "Something wrong?"

"Must have just pinched a nerve," Remington mutters; plastering a smile across his previously pained expression; waving off Alex's concern. "I'll be fine."

"Alright," Alex says, and takes a step back; careful to drop his hand to his side to obscure the thin needle poking out of his palm. Now all he has to do is get far away enough that he can fold it down and hide it once again.

And that's when everything goes to shit.

One moment, Remington is walking way from Alex; the next, he's staggering and begun gasping, clawing at his throat, obviously unable to draw breath.  _ Shit, _ Alex thinks. According to the information he was given, Remington had no allergies—but that's an anaphylactic reaction if Alex has ever seen one.

He has to get out here— _ fast _ .

Thankfully, everyone else has begun to panic; easily allowing Alex to move towards the exit without being detected. He bumps into a few people on the way out, but manages to keep his palm tucked in towards himself.

As soon as he'd slipped out the doors, he breaks into a hurried jog; ducking into a darkened alleyway, pulling the needle off of his palm and tossing it into one of the trashbins, and pulls out his phone, dialling Yassen's number. "We have a problem," he says, without preamble, as soon as the phone stops ringing. "I need extraction, stat."

Yassen's voice, tinny, comes across the line. "We have a safehouse three blocks from your location," he says. "There's keys to a van you can use—dispose of it as soon as you reach the border, and arrive by train."

"Yes, sir," Alex replies.

There's a brief pause, and then Yassen says, "Alex—" He sounds—almost concerned.

"What?" He's half sprinting by this point, keeping the phone pressed to his ear and trying not to look suspicious. He shed the blazer in the alleyway, and he looks somewhat more like someone taking a late night run.

"...nevermind," Yassen says. "Don't get caught."

The line crackles, before going dead. Alex opens the back of the phone; pulls the battery out and tosses it, before breaking the phone in half and dropping it over the side of the bridge and into the rushing river.

* * *

Alex dozes on the train to Malagosto. By the time he gets there, the sun's begun to rise; casting the landscape into gold and pale pink.

Despite his best efforts to calm himself, anxiety is clawing its way up his throat; making his chest tight. It's not his first solo assignment but it's the first one that's gone wrong like this. He drags in a deep breath; takes a step over the threshold and into Malagosto.

Navigating the compound is practically second nature to him after a year; now, he barely has to think about where he's going before he finds his feet carrying him to his debriefing room. When he enters, his heart drops.

Doctor Three is sitting in the chair on the other side of the table. There's a sheaf of papers in front of him. "Alex," he says, "please, take a seat."

Alex does as told. Dread is growing in his stomach; a cold, sucking pit.

"Care to tell me what happened with the mark?" Doctor Three says; calmly; placing his hands on the table and interlocking his fingers. He looks harmless—like an aging teacher. Alex knows better than to put any stock in the façade. Doing so is, at best, foolish, and at worst, a deadly mistake.

He swallows. "There was an unexpected development," he says, keeping his voice even. "Despite our information indicating that R—the mark had no allergies, he had an allergic reaction to the poison I administered."

Doctor Three hums. Passes the sheaf of papers across the table. "Thankfully," he says, "we were able to intervene with agents placed in the hospital. The mark is dead. However," he pauses, before continuing, voice perfectly pleasant as ever, "this demonstrates a dangerous precedent on your part. Mister Remington was a low level mark—his death will not draw too much suspicion. However, we cannot allow such a thing to happen in the future. Can you tell me what you did wrong, Alex?"

Alex bites back the instinctual  _ nothing, you old fuck, I followed the plan to the letter.  _ "I should have done more research," he says. "Double checked our information."

Doctor Three nods. "Exactly. However, you didn't—and I'm afraid that there will have to be consequences for that."

Alex freezes. "Sir?"

"Flip to the third page, please." The man's voice brooks no argument.

Hands slightly unsteady, Alex does as told. His heart nearly stops when he sees a full-colour photo of a familiar, freckled face, framed by mousy brown hair.  _ Tom. _

_ Mark Name, _ the page reads.  _ Thomas Harris. _

He scans the rest of the page, trying not to feel sick. "I—" his voice cracks.

Doctor Three meets his gaze; dark eyes flat. "Yes." It's not a question. A long pause lingers between them; and then he says, "There is, however, an alternative option."

Alex tries not to look to eager. "Sir?"

"A second round of Resistance to Interrogation," Doctor Three says, calmly. "You passed your first round, but there are certain members of the board who do not trust the results we gathered." Translation: they think you're a double spy and managed to hide it.

Alex swallows. "I'll take the RTI. Sir."

Doctor Three nods; rising. "Alright. In that case, please follow me."

* * *

RTI is hell. Alex doesn't expect any less, of course, but it still manages to surprise him.

Two weeks of pain. Of Doctor Three's voice, twisting its way into his brain; demanding answers. By the end of it, Alex can barely remember most of what he's been asked—only that he'd refused to answer, bringing on more pain.

When they discharge him from the infirmary afterwards, his head is still muzzy with pain. He's gotten a few dozen stitches, and splints for various sprains and minor breaks. When he catches a glance of himself in the mirror in his quarters, he winces.

He pulls out his phone; texts Tom.  _ can i call? _

The reply comes almost immediately.  _ yeah. please. _

Alex frowns. They talked before his assignment with Remington began—it's hardly the longest they've gone without talking. He brushes it aside. Maybe Tom's just lonely.

The phone barely rings a single time before the line crackles. " _ Alex, _ " comes Tom's voice; unsteady.

Instantly, Alex is on edge. "Tom? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," Tom assures him, sounding decidedly not fine. "Six apparently had a tail on me—they sorted it out. Is—" he hesitates. "Did it have something to do with your...job?"

_ There is...an alternative option.  _ Not  _ Your friend will be left alone if you take the other option.  _ Alex practically sees red. "Something like that," he snarls. "Tom, I'm sorry, I have to go—"

"Wait. Alex—" there's a rustling on the other end of the line, as if someone dragged fabric close to the microphone—Tom rubbing tears out of his eyes, Alex thinks, distantly—before Tom speaks again. "Just...stay safe, okay?"

"I will," Alex says; trying not to let anger leak into his tone; and hangs up.

He makes his way quickly to Yassen's quarters; knocks on the door. It swings open after only a few beats. "Alex," Yassen greets, looking unsurprised by the state he's in, if slightly sympathetic. "You want to talk to me?" he guesses.

Alex nods. "Yeah," he says. "Can we get lunch?"

Yassen hums. "Where were you thinking?"

"Tuscany?" Alex offers. "There's a place that serves a mean ribollita."

Yassen nods. "Alright. I'm free for the rest of the day. Give me a few minutes to get my coat and let Ian know were we are going."

Alex jerks his head in an approximation of a nod. "Okay." He takes a step back from the door, letting Yassen close it behind him. A few minutes later, the door opens again, and Yassen slips out and into the corridor, nodding to Alex to lead the way.

Within the hour, they're on the mainland, and Alex lets Yassen lead them to the train station and onto a crowded train. "Check yourself for bugs," he murmurs to Alex as they sit down, and Alex nods; doing his best to nonchalantly run his hands over his sweater and trousers. It's slightly hindered by the splints on his fingers, but he does his best.

He comes up with a few tiny devices. Yassen's only found one on himself—on his coat, probably because he's pretty paranoid about his clothes. When they rise, they bump into a few people on the way off the train, slipping the devices into various bags and pockets.

Yassen leads him off the train and onto another one. "What is it?" he asks, switching from Italian to Russian.

"We need to contact Six," Alex says, bluntly. "I want to give up SCORPIA."

Yassen raises a brow. "You have thought this through?" he asks, quietly. "If you make this decision, there will be no going back."

"I'm certain," Alex says, firmly. "They went after  _ Tom,  _ Yassen." He knows he sounds slightly desperate, but he doesn't care. He's beyond that, at this point. "I don't care what Six asks for. I'm willing to do it."

"You want to use my connections to make contact with them," Yassen guesses.

Alex nods. "I'll do it myself if necessary," he says, bluntly, "but I'm more likely to be found out if I have to rely on my own connections, and that would threaten you—and Ian," he adds; watching Yassen's expression flicker slightly.

It's not much, but it's enough to give him a good idea of what Yassen's reply will be. "All right," he says. "I can arrange a meeting today."

Alex nods. "Okay."

"We should get to your restaurant," Yassen says, expression flattening once more; and that's the last they speak of it for the rest of the train ride.

The ribollita is good; almost good enough to drown the pit of terror that's been slowly growing in Alex's stomach. By the time they make it to the safehouse, it feels like a gaping chasm.

When they step inside, it's to a familiar face. " _ Smithers? _ " Alex says, slightly aghast.

"He was in the area," Yassen explains. "It was simple enough to go through one of my contacts to arrange a meeting. I assumed you'd be most comfortable meeting with him, rather than one of the other agents stationed in the region."

Alex shakes his head. "I was just—surprised. Nevermind."

Smithers, for his part, looks much the same as the last time Alex saw him, almost three years ago, save for a few greying hairs. "I'll cut straight to the point," Alex says. "Tell Blunt we're willing to give him SCORPIA in exchange for our protection, and the protection of my—friend, Tom Harris, and Ian Rider."

"Your boyfriend was very lucky that he had MI6 agents assigned to him still," Smithers says. "A few days later, and he might not have been so fortunate."

"I  _ know, _ " Alex snaps. "Look, just—pass it up the chain, okay?"

Smithers nods. "Alright," he says. "What else are you offering?"

Alex glowers; opening his mouth, but Yassen cuts him off. "Our services," he says, sounding as if he expected the question. "Agent Rider's, and my own, for MI6. That, as well as SCORPIA, should be enough to sway the Director."

"Probably," Smithers agrees. "Alright. I'll pass it up the chain of command. We'll meet again here in a week, and I'll let you know the answer."

* * *

A week later, they return to the safehouse. This time, it's not just Smithers. Standing by his side is a familiar woman. When she sees Alex, she gives a tentative half-smile. Alex doesn't return it.

She schools her expression; clears her throat. "Gregorovich. Rider. Six has considered your offer."

"And?" Alex demands; somewhat impatient. "We're practically offering you everything, you can't really have debated it for that long."

Jones shrugs. "There were some concerns," she says. "We came to an agreement in the end, though. We accept your proposition. You give us everything you know about SCORPIA and its board of directors, and we give you immunity for the crimes you've committed—"

"There's one more thing," Yassen interrupts. "Blunt."

"What about him?"

"I want him dead."

Alex whips his head around to stare at Yassen in surprise.

" _ What? _ " Smithers chokes. "Gregorovich, you can't just—"

Jones waves her hand. "Quiet, please, Smithers."

"His management of the agency is lacking," Yassen says. "Quite frankly, I do not trust him to stick to his end of the deal. I fear that he will try and use Alex again, despite that not being part of our agreement. I know you have no love for the man, hence why I am proposing it."

"And how exactly do you propose we go about it?" Jones asks.

Smithers sputters. " _ Ma'am— _ "

" _ Smithers, _ " Jones snaps. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you think that Blunt has been leading the agency properly the last few years—hell, the last  _ decade.  _ And that's not even touching on the fact that since Alex, he's been looking to recruit child spies."

"...you're talking about  _ treason, _ " Smithers hisses. "This will have to be absolutely  _ failproof— _ if it looks suspicious in the slightest, then heads will roll.  _ My  _ head will roll, even if you're protected by your position as Deputy Head."

"I have no interest in it looking suspicious," Yassen says, smoothly.

"Then what's your plan?"

"Poison," Yassen replies. "A small dosage, to start with, to simulate the symptoms of cardiac arrest. Once the history has been established, a larger dosage will be used to stop his heart fully. I highly doubt that too many people will look into his death."

"He isn't particularly well liked," Jones agrees. "Maybe a preliminary investigation, but nothing particularly in depth."

"We are in agreement, then?"

There's a long pause; and then Jones sighs. "Alright. Yes, I agree to your terms."

Yassen nods. "Good. I assume you'll want to take our statements about SCORPIA, then?"

Jones nods.

"Good," Yassen says. "I will go first."

* * *

"Congratulations on the graduation," Alex says. He's sitting across the table from Tom, who's twirling his fork in his pasta. "You still going to Italy?"

Tom shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "Not now that you've moved back to London."

"You sure?" Alex asks. "I don't want to hold you back."

"You're not," Tom says, firmly. "Honestly, Italy was my second choice. I got a better offer for a uni here, anyway, and I'm going to accept it. The fact that it means I'll be able to be close enough to come see you every day is just a bonus." He shovels a bite of pasta into his mouth.

Alex wrinkles his nose. "The more things change," he mutters, taking a much more measured bite of his own meal.

Tom rolls his eyes at him. "You love it," he teases. "Admit it."

"I will admit to absolutely nothing," Alex says, and steals a bite of Tom's pasta.

Tom sputters. "Hey!" he says. "You hypocrite—you whinge about manners and then steal from my plate?"

"I contain multitudes," Alex says, straight-faced, before breaking into laughter at the other's indignant expression. "I'll let you have some of my desert," he promises.

"...alright," Tom says. "How's the thing with the bank going?"

"It's not," Alex says, cheerfully. "They offered me a position, and I told them to go fuck themselves."

Tom smiles; a touch of relief in his expression. "Good," he says. "I was slightly worried." A few beats pass, and then he says, quietly, reaching out to take Alex's hand beneath the table, "I was...worried about you, for a long time. Even when you were in Germany. It's...good to know that you're not in that line of business anymore."

"It feels good to not be in that line of business," Alex admits.

Tom hesitates. "What about your uncle? And Yassen?"

"They're with Six, for now," Alex replies. "I think they'll retire in a few years, though. Jones is way better than Blunt was, and I think she'd allow it."

"Good. That's good." Tom squeezes his hand.

Alex clears his throat. "Alright," he says, "enough heavy shit. How do you feel about chocolate cake and ice cream?"

A grin steals across Tom's face. "I feel  _ excellent  _ about it," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> and scene, people! finally, a happy ending for everyone.
> 
> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to yell at/with me about alex, tom, yassen, or ian


End file.
